


Derecho

by windsabove



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Clarissa has no patience for his shit, DOOMS sufferers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Higgs is a gremlin and I love him, Meteorology, Slow Burn, Timefall (Death Stranding), all meteorological terms are brought to you by the author, she's three ounces of whoop ass, yes I am a degreed meteorologist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21644146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsabove/pseuds/windsabove
Summary: Clarissa Lark is a meteorologist with acute DOOMS, studying chiral meteorology and timefall's effects on different fabrics in a partnership with a nearby textile station in former Midwestern America. As Sam Bridges' adventure begins, a nightmare of her own throws her into the hands of Demens and their leader, an arrogant man hiding behind a golden skull mask.To the highest bidder goes her skills. If only said highest deadly bidder would keep his mouth shut.
Relationships: Higgs Monaghan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 72





	1. Indifference

**Author's Note:**

> Death Stranding took over my life in short order, and Higgs is a right bastard that I absolutely adore. I wanted to give writing him a shot, and also try to give him a better ending than he got because WOW THAT UPSET ME (and I'm sure I'm not the only one). Anyway, there will be some usage of meteorological terms in this, since it's Clarissa's field, so if any terms don't quite make sense, feel free to ask! It's a small field, and I certainly don't expect anyone to know everything that's mentioned. However, I'll do my best to explain them within the context of the fic. With that, enjoy the shenanigans ahead!

Rain's gentle pitter-patter always soothed her, even in the face of death.

She held the plastic container out and up, as if making an offering to the accursed skies above her. Timefall wobbled and pooled at the bottom. As the volume of water grew, so did the darkness around her. Her boots began to sink into the ever-growing mud, no doubt falling apart from the soles up, but she only briefly entertained the thought of running with what she had.

It was hard to run with a BT hovering its head just over the lip.

She stared in silence, brown eyes wide, as the damn thing ran a finger over the rim. It had to know she was there. Listening to the softest gasps she could muster without drawing attention, drawn to the sounds of the rain smacking against her jacket.

Waiting.

She held her breath, hands clinging to the container, threatening to slip. The BT leaned in closer, smelled the panic on her breath. Myasmic fingers curled around the top of the plastic. She shut her eyes. Waited for it to drag her under tar and straight into the jaws of a voidout. 

Something galloped behind her. 

Every BT in the area darted after the poor creature, their undead screams piercing the chiralium-addled air. She kept her eyes shut until she heard the timefall begin to subside. A cool breeze brushed her cheeks. 

Sunlight reflected in the still waters of her container. 

She pushed her hood down and breathed a sigh of relief. There was enough for a proper sample and then some. A strand of blond hair fell in her face as she looked towards the horizon. Even after the pouring timefall, the colors of the world never rose from their dulling death.

“ _ Clarissa! _ ”

Clarissa whipped around to see one of the head meteorologists approaching her. She held up the container. 

“I got the samples,” she replied. 

“What are you doing out here  _ alone?”  _ The young woman looked her over, then set her hands on Clarissa’s shoulders. “I know you have DOOMS and all, but that doesn’t mean you can go marching out dodging BTs.”

Clarissa frowned. “Our timefall gauge hasn’t been automating for weeks, and you expect me to sit inside while precious samples go wasted? If we can’t fix the damn thing,  _ someone  _ has to step in and fill the role, Sherry.”

“Yeah, okay.” Sherry sighed. “Look. The world is small enough these days, especially for meteorologists. We can’t afford to lose anyone in our tiny science community to anything that isn’t a natural death. You’ve got a big brain in that head of yours. Use it for something aside from your work.” She turned and started walking back to their station. “Meet us in five. We have some stuff to talk over.”

Clarissa stared after Sherry. The little bit of pride she held for collecting the timefall vanished. It was either collect timefall alone, or waste time sitting inside the walls that were slowly becoming her prison. 

The green grass beneath her feet grew that much duller.

\-----

“We’ve received no new additional textile samples. In fact, we’ve had no response from our sister station for almost a month now.”

Panicked murmurs flooded the room. Clarissa sat, analyzing the faces of the head meteorologists. Something in their eyes hinted fear. 

“How many times have we tried establishing contact?” One of her colleagues asked. 

“Too many to count.” Sherry shook her head. “We would have been a part of a voidout if it was due to BTs. We’re close enough to the mountains, and...there’s really only one conclusion to all of this.” She took a breath. “We believe Demens have been roaming the mountains and taking control of whatever stations they can get their hands on.”

“What would the Demens want with us?” another colleague piped up. “We’re meteorologists, not weapons manufacturers.”

“Yes, but we’re testing fabrics and materials for our sister station. Timefall resistances and the like. No telling what ill-intended hands could do with an underprepared textile station and the meteorologists helping them.” A pause. “We need to be on guard at all times, more than ever. If we’re to see the reunification of America, we need to be alive for Bridges to get here and finally put us on the network. Without stable connections, we’re sitting ducks.”

More hushed voices added to the growing chaos around her. Clarissa blinked, thought for a moment, then spoke.

“And what are we going to do about this?” she asked. “Again, we’re scientists. We’re not exactly carrying around enough guns to supply an army, and Demens or not, we need to get our work done. We can’t sit here and waste our days away in fear.”

“Hence our new curfew,” another of the heads replied. “No one is to go outside past sunset. Under the cover of night, the area crawls with terrorists waiting to make their move. We can’t risk any of you going out there, not even for precious data or a seemingly innocuous delivery. And during the day, everyone leaving the station must have at least one partner at all times.”

Clarissa closed her eyes for a moment, but said nothing. Her argument of slowing productivity in the face of urgency would go unheard. She would find tricks and twists of the rules on her own time, when the reward of her acts greatly outweighed the risk.

But what was risk when death was around every corner?

“The policies take effect starting sunrise tomorrow. Should you get stuck outside alone…”

She tuned out. Things never really changed. Stay around people, keep to your work, but not too much. Have faith in Bridges. Have a spark of hope. It stopped meaning anything to her after the second time or so. Eventually, they were all dismissed. Clarissa wandered to her room and sank into her cot, staring up at the metal tiles on the ceiling as she fiddled with her blue hair ribbon, now tied to the edge of her cot. 

No bridge would link her to anyone. She didn’t need them.

\-----

Clarissa picked her head up from her desk in a tired haze. She didn’t remember putting her head down, nor did she remember stabbing a sewing needle through an already existing stitch. Come to think of it, she didn’t remember wandering to the lab at all. After a second of staring at her work, she wiped the drool from her chin and picked up the glove in question while soft music from her beat up music player weaved a story in the background.

The glove looked like it was made of ordinary leather, but was actually coated in a synthetic resin that would help it stay intact during heavy timefall. Perfect for porters and other travelers alike. For once, she was proud of the stitching. Putting finger or toe slots in any piece of fabric was nauseating, at best, and once she was done with it, it had to go straight to Capitol Knot for evaluation. Bridges wanted a look at the station’s samples, and what Bridges wanted, Bridges got. 

She didn’t hate them. The organization just made her work, and her life, that much more cumbersome. A shirt sample for this, timefall data for that, but only in the formats and styles they wanted. Nothing  _ too _ innovative. Not to mention all of the stories they were stirring up. 

All anyone would talk about anymore was how Bridges was going to save everyone from their crumbling lives. Everyone at the station babbled on about it any chance they got, started using it as motivation to keep spirits high and work flowing. It only made her gag. How, in a world so full of death, did any one organization hope to turn that around? And did they even have the resources to do so? From what she heard, it was one lonely porter running around the former States and connecting everyone. Clarissa wrote this guy off as a tall tale everyone told each other to wean themselves off of the oxytocin. Nothing more. 

And besides, she had no loyalty to Bridges. Her loyalty went to whoever allowed her to practice her field in the best way. Right now, that happened to be this tenuous relationship she had with the small station, one not near as equipped as the weather station to their south. For all she knew, the best candidate could be terrorists tomorrow. She wasn’t picky. If they presented her with a satellite that could take atmospheric readings through chiralium, she’d be gone in seconds. 

For now, though, this station needed her and her skills. She’d have to make peace with that part, at least.

Clarissa tied her blue ribbon back into her ponytail and set herself back to sewing. Leather was a tricky beast, but somehow, it eased her aching fingers. 

She’d been working on the glove for quite some time when she heard shuffling outside of the lab. No, not shuffling. Running. It faded after a moment, so she chalked it up to someone having an early morning bathroom run. The lab was the closest place to the bathrooms, anyway. She turned back to her sewing. Another two, three sets of footsteps dashed by, followed by screaming. 

And gunshots.

Clarissa grabbed her nearest pair of scissors, pulled it close to her work area, and continued sewing. She glanced at the other side of the room. Her data on timefall and other research for the past few months sat out in the open, ready for the taking. She cut the dark thread with her scissors, finishing the stitch. The head meteorologists were right, after all. Someone was after their resources, though she didn’t know the purpose. 

If she had it her way, she’d be dead before she let any of these strangers take her hard work. 

More gunshots rang out behind her. The screaming died down, morphing into gruff orders that almost drowned out her soft tunes. It wouldn’t be long before they found the lab. She tucked the pair of scissors into a front pants pocket, out of sight enough to slip past a watchful eye. Then, she dashed over to the player and yanked it from its dock before rushing back to her seat and tucking it in another pocket. Clarissa started on another stitch. The doors burst open behind her. She barely flinched. 

“ _ Freeze. _ ”

It wasn’t a barking order, like she’d heard in so many old movies. Nothing like the way supposed brave policemen confronted criminals. It was a quiet, yet fearsome, command. She let the silence linger before she spoke, continuing to sew. 

“I’m in no position to do so,” she began. “Y’see, you interrupted a  _ fantastic _ workflow for myself and my colleagues, and I’d appreciate it if you left me to my devices until I’ve finished sewing this glove.”

There was movement behind her, but it was slow, methodical, almost. She shifted her gaze to the right. Someone was staring down her months of work. 

“Take all of that,” the same man told his stock still comrade. Footsteps stomped closer to her. Clarissa held out a hand. 

“ _ First of all _ ,” she growled, “I politely asked you to  _ wait _ before raiding the lab. I thought you’d have the decency to listen.  _ Second _ …” She pointed towards the boxes now being carried away. “All of that is  _ my  _ research, and you’re going to put it down before you lose some fingers.”

The men stopped and fell quiet. Clarissa took a few shallow breaths, hand creeping closer to the scissors in her pocket. 

“Grab her, too.”

A heavy hand settled on her right shoulder. Clarissa grabbed her scissors, swiveled around in her chair and stabbed the offender in the arm, slipping under him and past the others as he screamed in agony. She burst through the lab doors and down the hall, taking a moment to glance for any opportune cubbies to shove herself into and wait out the slaughter. Nothing. Voices grew louder behind her. She dived into the nearest supply closet and curled up in a corner. 

After a few moments of silence, she grabbed her tiny music player out of her pocket. Enough to serve as a light source, but not quite enough to draw attention. Clarissa scanned it over her surroundings. There were a few cleaning chemicals she could mix in a pinch to gas the fuckers out of there. A shovel leaned against the wall just to her right. That could be used as is, or broken apart for several purposes. 

Heavy boots clicked just down the hall. Clarissa shut the player off and shoved it back in her pocket. The pair of feet stopped right in front of the door. She moved to grab the shovel, but her vantage point didn’t give her enough leverage, so she settled back down and stayed quiet. If luck was on her side, silence would get her out of this mess. 

Clarissa froze at the familiar ping of an odradek. She knew they could scan for cargo and terrain, but using them to scan people was exceptionally rare. Or, at least she’d never encountered it. She held her breath, waiting for the person to move away from the door.

“Gotcha.”

The door burst open, flooding her vision with light. Rough hands grabbed her by the arm and yanked her out of the closet. Clarissa whipped around in an attempt to kick them. She was met with reinforced armor bouncing back on her boot. She sucked in a breath and growled when her other arm was seized. 

“What should we do with her?”

“Take her back to base. Boss’ll want to have a few words with her about her findings.”

“Like  _ hell _ they will!” Clarissa spat. She shuffled her legs in the opposite direction, only to be swept off her feet and straight onto someone’s shoulder. 

Clarissa clawed and screamed at the terrorists the entire way out of the station. She was too enraged to check if there was any blood splatter on the floor, if the place was now littered with the corpses of her fellow colleagues. She only knew she wasn’t going to be coming back. Her anger did nothing to these people. 

Someone tossed her in the back of a vehicle, and one of the men got to work binding her hands and feet with metal cuffs small enough for her thin wrists and ankles. She snapped at the men with her teeth and screamed some more, but they were unphased. If anything, it only made them angrier. One of them held her head in place while another procured a blindfold. Before the cloth was tied around her head, before her world sunk into darkness, Clarissa caught sight of a white insignia on the uniform. It was something she’d only seen in advisory pamphlets and warnings from locals, but it was enough to remind her and punch her screams back into her throat. In the center of it, in capital letters, read their favorite method of terrorism.

_ VOIDOUT _


	2. Proposition

Clarissa’s ankles wept in relief at the sound of cuffs coming undone. Her knees straightened with a crack as she was yanked to her feet and pushed out of the vehicle. Her boots hit something soft. She brushed the ground with the tip of her foot. Grass, from the sounds of it. A heavy hand gripped her shoulder, forcing her along the path to their destination.

The cool air from earlier had only grown colder. She suspected they were in the mountains somewhere, but couldn’t completely confirm until they took the blindfold off. Wherever they were going, they pushed her along in a hurry. She wished she could see what she was doing so she could bite them every time they touched her. 

Surprisingly, it wasn’t long before Clarissa heard other voices join the silent atmosphere. They weren’t exactly subtle about her presence. Other Demens lingered near the sidelines as she walked past. She could feel the air shift as they inched closer to get a look at their newest victim. The thought of screaming at them crossed her mind, but her captors hadn’t shoved a gag in her mouth yet. No sense pushing the envelope right there. 

They shoved her in a chair and, in another weird twist, undid her handcuffs. They retreated from her space only moments later. Silence filled in once more. She took a breath, raised her hands to the back of her head, and slowly untied the dark blindfold. Light filtered into her vision. She blinked a few times and looked around. 

She was sitting in an extra large tent, stocked to the brim with weapons, ammo, and other supplies. The only empty spaces to be had were the walkways between wiry shelves, where she sat, and the tan canopy of fabric and metal above it all. A breeze filtered in from both front and back entrances. Clarissa leaned over and peeked at the front entrance. Heavily guarded. She should have suspected. From everything she’d heard, it wasn’t like the Demens to unchain a prisoner and let them run wild. She turned her head and glanced towards the back entrance. 

Now there was yet another surprise. Almost no one blocked the back way out of this tent, aside from the occasional Demen on the prowl. Did they somehow forget about it entirely? Maybe this was some sort of sick test to see how long it would take before she attempted to escape. It wasn’t above terrorists to play with their victims...and so far, the temptation of freedom was certainly working. 

Even if she did escape, however, there was no chance she would make it back to civilization on foot. Not only did she not have the supplies to survive the outdoors or the means to carry them, but she would wear through the soles of her boots before she hoped to find another soul. Plus, there was no telling if said person had ill intentions for a lost traveler, should she find one. None of this was in her favor.

Unless…

The Demens brought her here in a vehicle, probably a truck of some sort. It stood to reason they would keep multiple vehicles on site due to the wear and tear the rough terrain inflicted upon anything with wheels. If there was something she could drive, she could sneak off and grab one before anyone was the wiser. She tapped her chin, staring at the front entrance all the while. 

It wasn’t like these people afforded her much choice.

Clarissa stood up, relieved the chair didn’t squeak. She stared at the guards for a long minute. They didn’t move, not even to look back into the tent. Her stomach churned, but she stepped lightly to the back entrance all the same. She took a breath and peeked out of the entryway. No one to the left. Deserted to the right. If she remembered correctly, they came from the right side when they brought her here. She darted out of the tent and crept along the backside, taking the time to note her surroundings. 

There was a sizable rock immediately past the tent. Beyond that, two more smaller tents sat, filled with their own assortment of supplies. A few Demens patrolled around the tents, albeit at regular intervals. Past the setup, she could clearly see a vehicle. A Reverse Trike, to be precise. It wouldn’t last terribly long without a generator, but it would have to do. She watched the Demens patrol twice more before diving behind the rock. 

After a few seconds, she poked her head out. Still on the same patrol, and none of them stopped to give the rock a passing glance. Those helmets had to snuff out their peripherals. She shrugged and sped over to the nearest tent while their backs were turned. This one only had one pathway in and out, with about two feasible corners she could hide in and have a chance of not being caught, but it all depended on the angle someone entered. She crept to the exit, nearly kicking over a stray can in the process, and could see the tail end of the bike as she drew closer. After a breath, she took multiple long glances at both sides of the entryway. No Demens whatsoever. It was strange, but she wasn’t about to complain about this being easier than she thought. 

With a rush of determination, Clarissa sprinted over to the trike. It was a gaudy yellow, but this wasn’t the time or place to be picky about color. She patted the trike all over in search of something that would start the engine. Her hand found a small card taped to the bottom of the trike, and she spent a good minute just trying to get the tape off. It peeled away with a loud squeak. She shut her eyes tight for a moment, hoping to whatever entity made this damn planet that no one heard it, or at least chose to ignore it. With a minute of no footsteps approaching her location, she popped the card into the appropriate slot and hopped on the trike. 

Clarissa gripped the handles, trying to remember which one made it speed off into the sunset. It had been years since she’d been on one of these things. Out at the station, there wasn’t a need for trikes or trucks. Unless the porters decided to ignore them for a while, they got everything they needed from deliveries and the occasional kind neighbor. But skimming the green horizon ahead of her for a clear exit brought back memories of speeding down dirt-encrusted roads. She could still feel the wind on her face, hear the roar of the tiny engine as she stepped up the speed and milked the damn battery for all it was worth, sense the pull of the trike as she limped it over to a stray generator with dirt on her clothes and a smile on her face. 

A smile. 

Clarissa shook her head and twisted the right handle. The trike roared to life. She paused, looking down at her hands. All of her research was still sitting around here somewhere. She’d have to call upon some brave porter to fetch it for her without getting shot, though she was loathe to do so. Or she’d come back here with guns blazing and let timefall pour into their wounds. She made a mental note to think on it later. 

Shouting piped up from behind her. She cursed under her breath and pushed the bike into position with her feet, then skimmed the horizon one more time. It was a clear shot far beyond the reaches of the camp, with only a few small rocks within sight. She hitched her feet onto the trike, then slammed the right handle down, launching her away from the site with a satisfying electric burst. 

She fled the scene, the trike kicking up blades of grass as it soared across the landscape. Her bright locks flew into her face. Clarissa sucked in the cool air rushing to her lungs. It was sharp, almost bitter to her senses, like needles to her skin and fresh herbs on her tongue. Part of her was tempted to ease up on the acceleration. She glanced behind her and decided against it. The camp was still in site. She faced forward again, absorbing the sun rays that slipped between the clouds. 

Something clanged at the back of the trike. Her eyebrows furrowed, but she maintained her speed. She heard the noise again, although this time, it was constant. The trike began to wobble and bump, even on flat ground. Clarissa sucked in a breath and looked behind her, gasping at what she saw. The back tire of the trike was flat, almost fused to the rest it, and the metal was hanging on by an invisible thread. Electricity sparked from what remained, though there was no sign of a spear or a bullet. She growled and stared ahead, trying to keep her course. The trike beeped indignantly. Before long, it started to veer right into rocky territory. She yanked the handlebars, but they locked into position at the first indication of movement. A sizable rock was quickly approaching. Clarissa screeched and ducked down, bracing for the inevitable impact.

The crunch of metal against stone twisted her stomach, but not as much as the sensation of flying through the air. All of the air in her lungs was gutted out by the sheer force of the impact. She felt as if she were airborne for hours, suffocating, creeping towards death as she soared. However, the impact of her shoulder with the ground proved otherwise. She rolled a few feet, then came to a stop in a patch of soft grass. Her vision blurred for a moment, then cleared. She stared at the grass, letting out a pained groan. It wasn’t the worst impact, but she wanted to kick herself for not checking over the bike more thoroughly for broken parts. Her escape vehicle was trashed, and now she’d have to scrape herself off of the ground and trot to safety on foot. She wiggled them to make sure they weren’t broken, but the sound of boots crunching on grass stopped her from rolling over to stand. 

“Well, shit. Not bad for a scientist.”

The voice was muffled, as if the speaker had on a mask. Clarissa slowly rolled onto her back, ignoring the pain in her shoulder.

Leaning over her was a man in a gold skull mask that rested on the lower half of his face. The rest was black, covered by an additional mask. A dark half-cloak sat on his head and shoulders, but the lining was dark with gold stripes. The rest of his outfit looked to be inspired by old military garb, with gold plates attached the back of his gloves. She read enough about the Demens to know exactly who this was and why, in that moment, she counted herself dead.

“Higgs,” she muttered.

Higgs tilted his head. “I’m impressed. A little weather girl like you knows about me?”

Clarissa turned her head and spit on his boots. “Fucker.”

Higgs chuckled. “Ooh, this is new. The scientists are usually the ones that start begging for their lives first.” He reached down and yanked her to her feet by her bruised arm. Clarissa yelped, breathing through gritted teeth. “Seems we got a firecracker this time, hmm?” She wriggled in his grip, to which he responded by pulling her closer. Her shoulder screamed, but she bit back the pain. “Oh, but don’t worry about us killing you. There’s too much information in that pretty little head of yours to just snuff you out. No.” He ran a gloved finger down her cheek. “We’ll be  _ real gentle. _ ”

She snapped her teeth at his finger, which only garnered an amused laugh from him as he pulled it back.

“Touch me again and you’ll lose  _ much more _ than a finger,” Clarissa snarled.

Higgs shook his head, still laughing at her attempts to hurt him.

“Sounds like a challenge to me.”

\-----

Clarissa stared down at her feet, fuming. After all of the planning, all the sneaking around and the small taste of freedom, she was back in the same chair, now waiting for Higgs to speak. They didn’t bind her, but there was enough of a presence to keep her glued to her seat. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She debated getting up and running, anyway. Maybe going out as Swiss cheese would be better than enduring whatever the hell they had planned. 

“So!” Higgs clapped his hands together, then turned to face her. “You fell for the oldest Demens trap in the books. Spot a little freedom, you take off running. Guess they never taught you that in those pamphlets.”

“What the  _ hell _ do you want with my research?” Clarissa growled. “I thought chemical research would interest your type more.”

He took a breath. “Terrorism ain’t all about the bombs, darlin’. Doesn’t work without a little bit of tact. How else do you think we’ve snuck into cities and blown them right to hell?” Higgs stepped closer to her, but still kept a sizable distance. “According to your oldest document, you’ve been studying timefall for well over two years. That right?”

“What  _ else  _ would I do as a fucking meteorologist?” she snapped. 

“You don’t get to play that act,” he replied, procuring a familiar glove from one of his pockets. Clarissa sucked in a pocket of air. Dark thread still hung from one of the fingertips. “Your little weather station had a talented seamstress on board. Making clothes for the  _ heroic _ Bridges bunch.”

“No. Not just them. Whoever wanted it.” She shook her head. “I just put the clothes together. Me and some other colleagues. The fabrics rest with the textile station, though I doubt you left anyone alive there.”

“Didn’t have to. Not when everything we needed was under one roof.” Higgs pulled a folded piece of paper from the glove, then unfolded it and held it up by his fingertips. “Chemical formulas, automated processes for fabric manufacturing, everything down to the tools needed to do the job. Sound familiar?”

Clarissa fell silent as she stared at the worn paper. It was the first of many sheets detailing her research on the subject, though before all of this, it was buried beneath piles of timefall collection numbers and other meteorological data. She stared at the floor.

“Nothing to say?” Higgs clicked his tongue. “And to think all of those people at your sister station became crater fodder because  _ you _ had to hide your little secret. But I guess scientists don’t like to get their hands dirty when it comes to betrayal. They always want someone else to take care of it.”

She snapped her head up, staring directly into the void of his face. 

“Either kill me or tell me what you want,” Clarissa seethed.

Higgs stepped a bit closer, beginning to circle her. She could almost feel the sick satisfaction he garnered from digging under her skin. 

“Here’s a little proposition for ya,” he started. “You’ve got two options. One involves lending us your skills for a while. Figure out the weather for our operations, make some reinforced clothes and armor so they’ll last more than five minutes in the timefall. Hell, maybe even come up with something useful with that mechanically-driven brain of yours.” He tapped his fingers against a nearby storage rack. “The other involves walking out of this tent and letting my boys have at with their guns. If you survive, congrats! But you’ll have to get home through the cold, harsh wilderness with nothing but the clothes on your back.” He stood in front of her and leaned into her space. “Seems fair, right?”

Clarissa turned her head away from his stare. Her mind screamed at her to choose a freezing, painful death over servitude. Something else tugged her towards living for a little bit longer. A third option almost vaulted her out of her chair to punch Higgs in the face, mask and all, not caring how bloodied her knuckles became. However, if she lived for longer, even if it were just a few short months…

Maybe she could make something out of them, assuming she lived that long at all. 

She looked straight ahead, and somehow, he was closer now than he was just a minute ago. Clarissa made a face, but swallowed down the urge to spit on his mask and give herself the satisfaction of knowing he’d have to clean it off in short order. She paused, inhaled slowly, then spoke. 

“You make a fair point about the wilderness, so fine.” Clarissa held up a finger. Guns shuffled positions behind her. “But if you want anything done, you’ll treat my research needs as one of your top priorities.”

Higgs let out a short laugh. “I wasn’t aware you were in a position to negotiate.”

Clarissa cocked her head to the side. “Unlike guns and nukes, researchers need basic necessities to survive. A decent diet and a place to rest their head, for starters.” She narrowed her eyes, the smallest smile tugging at her lips. “Unless you  _ want _ all of that ‘precious knowledge’ to rot away and go to waste. Terrible use of your time, if you ask me.”

He stared at her for a long minute. Though she couldn’t see the face she was making, she assumed it was some form of scowl. 

“I’m a little hurt by that, Larky,” he mumbled, ignoring how she cringed at the slaughter of her last name. “You think I wouldn’t treat my prisoners well in this day and age?”

“Not in the slightest,” she replied.

“Cold as fucking ice.” Higgs patted her shoulder. She stopped herself from trying to twist his wrist. “Yeah, you’ll do just fine.” He straightened up and turned to walk out. “Set her up, boys! She’s here to stay.”

Clarissa gasped as darkness enveloped her vision again. For now, at least, she was alive and kicking. As she was escorted out of the tent and away from the site, she could only hope to think of a solid plan of escape before they incorporated her into their operations too much. 

That is, unless they bought her loyalty somehow.   
  
  
  



End file.
